


Ten Little Soldier Boys

by moon_hedgehog



Category: The Glass Scientists (Webcomic)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Soulmate AU, Victorian, fem!Jekyll, where is my Gatsby style ah look here it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 17:45:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13506612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_hedgehog/pseuds/moon_hedgehog
Summary: there are some things - too fragile to touch, too easy to break, too naive to betray and too knotty to love.





	Ten Little Soldier Boys

**Author's Note:**

> the strangest angst i've ever written [2/2].  
> _  
> wild mix of musical and comic. I just want everyone to suffer, ok?

one little Soldier Boy left all alone;  
he went out and hanged himself and **then there were none**.

[xxx](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/And_Then_There_Were_None)

 

 **Robert Lanyon** is five and he's an early child, whose mother could not bear childbirth. He's woven of lilac aether, chocolate freckles, and April laugh. He's spending hours playing in the garden, not paying attention to the alarmed governesses; bandaging wings of wounded swallows; hiding tiny found treasures in a small maternal box. This is all he has left of the departed, and this is all she managed to pass on to him in her will. Robert gently traces his fingers through the roughness of soldiers, cut out on the lid. They are so tiny and stupid – all fight and battle, with rifles at the ready. He likes to believe that they are protecting the dearest that he has.

At age nine, Robert's father hires him a private tutor and says that people like him must be able to play. Robert doesn't like that old, cumbersome piano – he escapes from lessons and hides in an old abandoned church; and when he returns, father breaks his box and buttons with the flower seeds scatter sonorously on the floor.

 

Robert Lanyon is sixteen and next year on his wrist will reveal a name of his fate. Only the people of his class so rarely read the twisted lines on the skin – gold and diamonds always beckon much more. However, **Gabriel Utterson** has gotten lucky in this – his wife was destined for him by the Lord himself. Robert's best friend, a young lawyer: Gabriel is woven of rough flax, heedfully raised lip corners and thick dusty dictionaries. He looks after Robert with non-fatherly care, tells him about the adventures of the outside world and gives many, many books – not those boring ones, of men's anatomy, on which his parent spent a lot of money. Utterson gives books about pirates and treasures, about nightmarish monsters and their creators, about brave knights and devotion to their homeland. Robert even finds in this heap of books one silly romance novel – the novel turns out sugary-sweet on the tip of the tongue and warm-red to the touch.

At 23:00 of his seventeenth birthday, Robert's left wrist burns with fire, he clenches his teeth and in a few minutes reads tiny “Edward Hyde”. When father notices the name, he pulls Robert by the hair and slaps him; the boy's head is ringing, also now he's cursed.

 

Robert Lanyon is twenty, **Henrietta Jekyll** is twenty-one – they sneakily throw each other glances, sitting in the back row of church benches. After the end of the service, he'll, as always, take her by the arm and they will go out to the streets of London, enjoying the unawaring September sun. Henrietta is woven of sprawled curls on her shoulders, bell-ringing laughter and sharp words. She kisses excellently, leaving after her lips a taste of bitter wine; she softly keeps silent during genteel conversations, she is a woman of science – and Robert admires her, and she's quite a good option to “fix” him. Their engagement, wedding, family life is planned for years to come, any choice is out of the question.

A month after they met, Robert shows Henrietta the name. He's sure – she is not one of those who will take to calling him damned and unholy. And she, of course, doesn't. Only smiles sadly and hides her own wrists.

 

Robert Lanyon is twenty-four, he heads the Society for Arcane Sciences, of which knows practically nothing. His wife has erected this place like her own fortress – the palace of knowledge and mystic. In her expeditions she has been finding and giving shelter to the various scientists, entrusting Robert to help her in this in London. Once he catches **Rachel Pidgley** – woven of a chocolate chip cookies, lazy morning awakenings, and stubbornness. Her brother needs medicine, she needs a job; surely no one leaves her on the streets, and soon she becomes a part of a large family. She and Henrietta meet, and laugh, and chat – and Robert sees that Mrs. Lanyon is really very happy. Then the scared, injured werewolf Jasper comes to the Society – he and Rachel look at each other, look at their wrists and smile. Here no one will prevent them from loving those they love.

After his arrival passes a week, Robert cannot forget the memory of Henrietta's and Rachel's short kiss, which the girls unnoticeably exchanged on one of the warm evenings. All of this was a long time ago. He's asking his wife about her well-being, but she only shrugs her shoulders indifferently.

 

Robert Lanyon is twenty-seven, he rules today's charity ball and his costume is terribly simple and expensive. He loses a count of hands shakings and polite smiles; remembers only the sir **Danvers Carew** , woven of venerable silence, orange yarn and conifer prickles. He seems to represent everything that Robert has always dreamed of seeing in his father – also, on his daughter's wrist neatly flaunts “Lucy Harris”, and not that this honorable sir is even somehow worried about that. Robert feels blessed when talking to this man; but then his attention is drawn to the newcomer and he forgets that the windows on the second floor are wide open. The newcomer is covering his face with a simple black mask, devoid of feathers and glitters; has a long cloak, fastened with an emerald brooch; going straight to Henrietta Lanyon and, it seems, invites her to dance. Carew whispers in his ear the name that deep in his soul Robert already knows for a long time.

At the end of the ball, Robert pleads his wife to follow to his office and locks the door behind them. For the first time, he asks her _who_ is written on her wrist by the universe's ink. Henrietta turns away, but answers:

“Not you.”

 

Robert Lanyon is twenty-nine, in front of him is standing **Hastie Lanyon** – and now he is all woven of anger. Father throws into him a folder of documents, then a vase, then a heavy Bible that painfully hits its erring son on the head. Robert cringes in the corner, he wants to run away, but running is useless – so he just waits for the inevitable. Senior Lanyon swears on the newly-blooded Holy Book that he'll curse the name of his son like the name of the last city whore. All his work will burn in hellfire, and his wife will be cursed with him, for not being able to eradicate the demon of lechery from him. In the evening of the same day, Edward Hyde carefully treats his wound and kisses the top of his head, gently brushing through the curly hair. For Robert, his small apartment in Soho in a thousand times nicer than cold, laden with antiques home. Edward vows that from now he'll _never_ allow _anyone_ to touch something that's dear to him. Robert permits himself at least a little bit to believe, plunging into disorderly kisses and hoarse half-sighs.

The next day, the honorable Hastie Lanyon is found dead in his own room, the balcony of which is open. Robert becomes the heir to the wealth of his family, albeit the dearest thing that he had now has long been broken.

 

Robert Lanyon is thirty, **Edward Hyde** , seems, too – they're sitting by the window, with glasses of wine in their hands, drink and laugh a hell of a lot. This strange green-eyed demon is woven of cheap hangovers, soft touches, and hot pleasure. Robert with childish naivety doesn't know what it means to be in love – but if this is what he's experiencing now, then he wants it to remain forever. Hyde came from Scotland, he works in a cheap bar in Soho and sincerely honors the Queen – and yet all this is the purest lie about which everyone, however, doesn't care. The truth is that Edward jumps on the roofs at night, almost always smells of sex and alcohol, and kisses as if tomorrow will be the Day of Judgment. His lips leave a tart flavor of cinnamon, and this is much better than bitter wine.

A month after they met, Robert shows Edward the name, his own. The world around him is tapering to one tiny point and he hardly noticeably trembles, but still asks _who_ is written on that right wrist that his lover always holds under a black bandage. Edward laughs, but answers:

“Not you.”

 

Robert Lanyon is thirty-one, the world around him is twisting by the series of mysterious murders and ugly accidents. London is alarmed, the newspapers are screaming about blood, pouring onto the pavement; the residents are discussing the steel taste of water and fussing around the police department. The Society for Arcane Sciences is trying wisely to keep away from the general hysteria. This cannot last for long. Woven of spider paws, violet dreams, and moon flowers, **Miss Lavender** disappears on the tenth day of the murders. All attempts to find her end up in inconsolable darkness; until one day, Mr. Hyde appears on the Society's threshold and offers Mrs. Lanyon his help. Robert is wonderingly trying to catch his glance, but the green eyes of his fate are focused only on Henrietta; who accepts the proposal after some silence. The next few days pass in the sticky expectation of something terrible – then Mister Hyde brings the lifeless and mutilated body of Lavender straight into the Society's hall.

As the dead stillness pervades an air, Edward turns to Henrietta and whispers barely audible:

“I'm… sorry.”

The lady looks away, straightens a lock of her hair and nods; Robert suddenly thinks that a bullet in the forehead or a noose around his neck are pretty good decisions to end with life. Edward Hyde has told him “love” often – and not once with the tone that filled these simple words of sympathy.

 

Robert Lanyon is thirty-three – the last two years he's constantly dying and squandering money in cheap taverns. In the Rad Rat works **Lucy Harris** , woven of red lips, black skin and hasty touches – her name is strangely familiar, but, incidentally, all this is only echoes of a past life. In a past life there is a place for Henrietta Jekyll-Lanyon, the Society of Arcane Sciences and church campaigns – in the new there is only late returns home and seas of alcohol. It's found an edge when one day Robert mixes a glass of liquor with an awful wine; and then feels the familiar smell of cinnamon and instinctively reaches out to the diffuses silhouette. After a second or a week, he finds himself in a tiny apartment in Soho, where he's being pushed onto the bed, cursed on the way. Robert giggles drunkenly “Henry is tired of this everything?” - for this he gets a fist in the nose and sobs, clutching to the sheets. Edward sighs, draws him closer and ruffles his hair.

“You're such an idiot.”

Robert lets his words pass by his ears because he's falling into a heavy dream – at the corner of his eyes, he only manages to notice tiny letter “H” on the thin right wrist.

The next day the murders begin again. One of Soho's gutters has a girl's corpse, the police find a scrap of paper with an illegible handwriting, and starts to follow the one whose name signs on this scrap.

 

Robert Lanyon is thirty-five, he receives news of the untimely death of Sir Danvers Carew and the murder of Gabriel Utterson. At the funeral of the first one is inconsolably crying daughter, her wrist blackened – Lucy Harris was strangled in her own room; at the funeral of the second one, wife **Emilia Utterson** 's biting her lip. Probably, once there was a sun, shining in her eyes – now she's woven of ashes, sorrowful violin and faded smiles. In her hands a tiny ruby brooch, lips are trembling, and Robert does not have time to talk to her – the next morning, the lady is found dead. The police continue to keep the suspect's name in secret, and the citizens begin to take justice into their own hands. The stars in London aren't visible behind a thick layer of smog – Edward Hyde appears at Robert's doorstep, and a few minutes later Henrietta Lanyon skilfully bandages his bloody shoulders. Robert wants to hide in his room and howl in despair – instead, he buys a ticket to Edinburgh and hands it to his soul. The next morning, before leaving, Edward puts in Henrietta's palm a tiny ruby brooch in the shape of a rose.

Since that day no more murders have taken place in London. Henrietta returns to the management of the Society; and Robert checks the mail for letters from Scotland, powders red scars on his left wrist and falsely smiles to the new acquaintances – it's all so commonplace that it's a sin to complain.


End file.
